Bulls, Bears, Bullets And Booze
Stories and Art by Doug Bowles
Edited and Published by Jim Prentice, Keystone Publications
Copyright 1985 Doug Bowles
Smashwords Edition
Chapter One
Oh, For The Life Of A Game Warden
As you will notice, I don't write these stories in the sequence that they happened but just as I think of them.
This is one event that I had nothing to do with, but I got a kick out of it, and figured it is worthy of mention.
In this particular area, which is common to a lot of the country, there was a lot of poaching and night jack-lighting taking place. A couple of young rascals figured they would have some fun. Every time the neighbour heard or saw any of this foul play taking place, he would call the Warden pronto. So this night, the rascals went out in the bush, where the neighbours would be sure to see them, and started flashing spot lights around, and firing the odd shot, just to make sure the neighbours would get the word.
After a few minutes of this nonsense they went back home to wait for the results. Well sure enough along comes the warden, speeding along, down the road, and into this field zippidy bang. Well a bang was the result. For some reason, there were a few sections of harrows turned upside down right where the warden entered this field. The pointed steel spikes of the harrows are sudden death to tires. But it's not over yet. The poor warden came to these rascals house, and paid them to take him to town so he could pay the tire company to replace all four of his truck tires. It beats me how anybody with even a grain of conscience or self-respect could do such a dirty trick.
But
all kidding aside, I believe that most of our Game Wardens should be
commended for the job they have to do. Now how do you think he feels
when he gets called to apprehend a poacher or a night lighter, only
to find it is one of the privileged minorities, who can do that sort
of act legally, because of an irrational law that was passed nigh
onto 120 years ago. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you were in
the warden's shoes you might be inclined to 'Lose Your Cool' to put
it mildly.
Chapter Two
In The Beginning
I guess that hunting, and the love for firearms was bred in me since my father and his two brothers were avid hunters. Dad tried to teach my brother and myself how to handle and safely use a firearm when we were very young lads. As much as we were drilled on the safety aspect of hunting, and using a firearm, I still find that I do, or have done, some careless and dangerous things at one time or another. Anyone who says he hasn't shouldn't be trusted with gun or dog, I'd keep an eye on him at all times.
I remember dad telling me about a man he knew who could shoot equally well either left or right handed. That would sure be handy, especially when duck hunting. So I practiced shooting both left and right handed until I found that either way seemed natural to me. I could shoot equally poor in either way. This rare ability will come into play later in one of these hunting stories.
When my brother and I were young lads, we used to look forward to Christmas holidays. We would spend the week with our Grandpa, and our two uncles and we could go "deer hunting". After all, this was a once a year event, and you couldn't miss it. Our version of deer hunting was to take off about a mile north of Grandpa's place where there was a real good rabbit patch. We knew all about this "deer hunting" as our dad used to tell us many stories about the sport. One of us would stand point, while the other "beat bush", and tried to chase the rabbits from one bush to the other. When the rabbits would run across the clearings we would try and shoot them on the run. You were not allowed to shoot one "sitting". I suppose that this helped us become reasonably good at hitting a moving target, especially my brother.
When I think about that statement, I believe I was just a little careless with the truth, because I am sure I have missed five or ten times more moving targets than I've hit.
We lived two and one half miles from school, and our transportation in the summer months, was by "Jeep" and buggy. Jeep was the name of our little pinto Shetland pony. He could trot for miles pulling a buggy, but someone trying to ride him never impressed him. Being the avid hunters that we were, we used to smuggle our "Rabbit Gun" to school under the seat of our buggy. I don't know if you can still purchase .22 caliber shot cartridges or not, but at that time you could, and that is what we used in our "Rabbit Gun", so we could pick off those rodents while you were in motion. You didn't have to be dead on to produce a dead gopher.
Well, that luxury didn't last very long as one of the neighbours either heard or saw us picking off these rodents on the move and informed our parents. So, as a result, mother heartlessly confiscated our trusty "Rabbit Gun", not to mention the verbal abuse that was laid on us. I must say, that sure took all the fun out of going to school.
On the safety side of things, I recall the time my young brother was fixing, adjusting, cleaning or whatever, the old .30-06 for my dad and, for some reason or another he accidentally shot a hole through mother's solid maple living room table. Well, actually the bullet didn't go through the table, it just moved the table to a new spot. Talk about re-arranging the living room furniture....
While we are on the safety kick, I had the privilege of going out with my dad and the guys to help set up camp for deer hunting. One of my dad's hunting partners had a .25-20 Winchester carbine that I really took a liking to. So after camp was basically set up, this chap told me to take his rifle and see if I could get a deer for camp meat. Well, I wasn't gone long when I saw "camp meat". It wasn't a very good shot, (and I sure didn't want to miss) so I tried to get to a spot where I could get a better shot. Doggone it, he disappeared abd then I saw him again, but was it him, or was it some other animal. Well, I never did get a shot, and I came back to camp and told my heart-rending story. I will always remember my dad saying, "You did right, it could have been someones cow or a horse". In all the years I have hunted I could not begin to say how much game that has eluded me, because "I wasn't sure".
I was 16 years old, and got my very first deer-hunting license, and was permitted to take a day off school to go hunting with my dad. We were about ten miles from home when we saw a nice big buck just on the edge of a long narrow bluff. Before we could get stopped he ran back into the heavy cover of the bluff. So dad said to me, "You go through the middle of the bluff, and I'll go on the south side". So, here I was, on my very first 'legal' deer hunt. Well, I didn't go very far when I see a white tail waving good bye on the south side of the bluff - here's my chance to bag my very fist 'jumper' - but is it a deer or what - again what my dad had taught me (be sure of your target) possibly saved his life, because it was not a deer, but my dad walking on the south edge of the bush. Was that luck, or was it good teaching?
On another occasion, again I was "beating bush", and I was about 30 yards in the bush, and there were numerous openings to my right, when a deer had come out ahead of me, and then doubled back across one of these openings. I was just about to squeeze off a shot when all at once another hunter was in the line of fire. Thank God for telescopic sights. The other hunter was my brother, who was much further ahead of where I thought he would be.
Then there was the time, a few years later, when I got the urge to try to try a crack at gopher hunting. I had just purchased a new Marlin 39A, .22 caliber carbine. It had a fairly heavy trigger pull when I first got it, so I had that rectified, and it was time to try it out. Now these rodents were very crafty little rascals, and every time they saw any sign of a human, they would scamper off, down to the safety of their burrows. So in order to out-fox them, I drove my car into the middle of the gopher patch, and I got in the back seat, rolled the windows down so I could shoot out either side. Remember, I could shoot equally poor left or right handed. In the process of moving back and forth from one window to the other, somebody pulled the trigger on my new Marlin, and POW, there was an ugly big bullet hole right through the roof of my'47 Pontiac. Now do you think I had some fun, trying to explain that one to my elders? But there must be better times ahead, I hope.
Chapter Three
It's For The Birds
Well, to begin with, bird hunting was never my most favorite sport, mainly because I was never a very good shot with a shotgun, never was at the right slough, or never was in the right stubble field, not ot mention the dreaded thought og digging a pit.
But, I do remember one day when I did have some luck. Our grandpa came and took my brother and I in his Packard, as he called it (actually it was a Model-T) to go duck shooting. We drove around and checked out a few sloughs and we found one that had a few ducks on it, so we tried it out for a while. Grandpa and my brother decided to take a look at some other spots, but I thought this one looked pretty good to me. I have a good shoot there that is until I ran out of shells. If I remember correctly, when the smoke cleared, I had fourteen ducks. I must have missed a few because I had a box of shells with me. That was one time I was top dog, as I think they only had three or four ducks between them.
My brother and my uncle decided that we'd get the big ones, and took off for Kindersley, Saskatchewan, where the geese were so plentiful you just couldn't miss. We spent hours spotting geese and digging pits, only to find the next morning that they were either going to another field, or flying a mile or two high. The worst part of this was the digging of these pits. I don't believe I have ever tried to dig in a place like that before. It was just like digging up a cement driveway, with a few boulders added for good measure. Then, to top it off, you'd just get nestled down in your pit, and the whole field would come alive with about 100 vehicles. I am sure Main Street in Moose Jaw couldn't have more traffic. As a rule before these clot heads had their pits dug it would be daylight, and the geese were on the move - and I mean on the move - and with all this commotion going on , I can assure you it wasn't in our direction. Then of course there were the other dipsticks that figured they had .30-06 shotguns, and they'd start blasting away before the birds were within a half-mile of them. But it wasn't all for nothing as I did have one real good duck shoot one evening, while the others were away spotting geese. But the same thing happened again - I ran out of shells. I don't believe we took one goose home that trip. My uncle hit one, which I should have had (it was so close to me I could have counted her eye lashes) but it flew about 150 yards before it came down. Then, to top that off, some airhead jumped out of his pit and went and retrieved it for himself. He wasn't too popular with the other hunters either, as the geese were still flying around (around somewhere else after that).
I only went up there one other time, and had almost the same type of luck. You could not shoot Snow Geese for another week, and of course, guess who molested our decoys by the dozens. On one occasion a Speckle Belly and a Snow made the mistake of flying over me, and POW, he hit the dust. Well of course it was the Snow Goose.
As my family did not care for ducks or geese I have not hunted either for some years now. For a while I used to hunt Ruffed Grouse, as the family didn't mind them.
They were a fair challenge to try and hit as they quickly vanished behind a tree or other obstacles. There was one time I recall that was rather funny (for the grouse that is). It was getting dark, and I was on my way back to the car, when up in a tree flew Mr. Grouse. At first I could not see where he was, but I was sure he landed in that tree. Then I saw him peeking around the tree at me. All I could see was his head, so I figured, this is good, I won't spoil any meat. How right I was. I let fly at his topknot, and wondered why he wasn't toppling out of the tree. Well, he kept doing this for I don't remember how many times, and then he decided that he had had enough of this hide and seek game, and he took off to where there was a little less noise.
On another occasion, one of my fellow workers and I thought we'd try out a slough I knew about, that usually had a good number of ducks hanging around it. Sure enough, there was a steady stream of ducks coming and going, so it was a good choice. So we crawled through mud and grime till we were right on the edge of the slough, and when they took off, we started blasting away until we were out of ammo again. Much to our dismay, only one duck was down, and I didn't do it. I am sure you could not have thrown a baseball through that maze of ducks without hitting one, but then of course number 4 shot is a lot smaller than a baseball.
My brother and I did the same thing one other time as well. Only this time we crawled right in beside them, in fact I was so close I think I could have grabbed one by the neck, which I should have done, because we never touched a feather. No wonder I quit that sport.
Before I close this chapter out, I must tell a little story that I found to be kind of amusing. My dad told me this one when I was just a youngster.
A number of American millionaires came up to Canada and bought up a fairly large area of land on the shore of a very good lake for duck hunting. And of course, they would not let anyone else hunt on this property. On this particular day these three Manitoba boys were hunting adjacent to this property and they knew from the amount of shooting that was going on over on the American’s property that they must have a great number of ducks. So they decided to sneak over to the Lodge and see how the Americans had made out. I don't recall exactly but it seems to me that they had 60 ducks hung up on the lodge wall. At that time there was no bag limit.
After further investigations, they found out that all these guys had slightly overindulged in the spirits, and they were all passed out. So the Manitoba boys promptly went and got their car and drove right in to the lodge and loaded up all the ducks and what booze they had left. They went home after a very successful hunting trip. The thing that stood out in my mind was that they dragged their tire chains behind the car, so they would not be able to track them. I wonder what the Americans thought when they sobered up? Talk about a bad dream or what.
Chapter Four
Bigger Is Better?
I always liked big or bigger game hunting better than bird hunting. They should be easier to hit if they are bigger, but I learned that that is not always the case.
My first Moose hunting trip was in the winter of '58 if I remember correctly. One of the fellows that I worked with, and I, decided that the Duck Mountains (I should have known better with a name like Duck) would be the place to go. At that time there was no draw system, you just bought a license for whatever area you wanted to hunt in. In this area, you were allowed either a Moose or an Elk. I don't think I'd ever been in the Duck Mountains before, let alone hunt in them.
We stayed in an old abandoned log house, somewhere on the southeast area of the mountains. I wouldn't have a clue as to where it was now. I remember we went in Ollie's car, which was a '53 Chevy coach, and I was amazed at how good it would start without being plugged in. I would have been more amazed if I had known exactly how cold it was. They told us when we got back to civilization later in the week, that it had been as low as minus 36 degrees Fahrenheit. In any case, we hunted unsuccessfully for four days, but we did see one, I think. Again it was the same old story, is it a moose or is it just the way the “spruce trees were growing. After a few moments of serious deliberation the "spruce tree" disappeared rather rapidly, never to be seen again - not by us anyway.
On the afternoon of the fourth day we decided to move to a new campsite, The Grandview Hotel, and on the way we met a fellow, who was trapping. He told us that if we followed the trail that he used for his trap line, we would get into a pretty good moose hunting area. He assured us that it did come back on the main road if we stayed on it and made the loop. Well, I think that was the biggest loop I ever walked and I had my doubts if it would come out, especially after it got dark on us. But we did get out, and we did see a lot of good moose sign, so we decided that we would try it again the next morning. That night we phoned the trapper, his name was Jim, and he said he would ride out with us and show us another trail to try.
The next morning we headed out in the old Chevy, Ollie and Jim in the front and me in the back of that old coach. That almost proved to be my undoing. We were almost at the trail we were going to take when Holy Old Muck Tuck, two moose ran across the road in front of us. The other two guys had .30-30 Winchester rifles with iron sights, and I had my dad's .30-06 model 1895 Winchester lever action (the same one that had rearranged the living room furniture). It had a clip magazine, but it was not detachable, and you had to stuff the bullets in one at a time.
The trees were very heavily loaded with hoarfrost, which I think, was to the moose's advantage. By the time I turned into a contortionist to get out of the back seat of that coach, the other guys had each fired a shot at the moose. I am sure that with iron sights, they had shot over the top of the moose and hit the trees, which in turn knocked the hoar frost off them, scaring the moose. They turned and went the long way around to the rear of the under brush.
By that time, I had extricated myself from the back seat, and did get one shot at each of them. I was using a small Bone scope (which they do not make anymore), and I was sure that I had a good shot at them both, but the other guys figured that we had muffed it completely. We went to check it out, and sure enough, there were two dead moose that needed to be cleaned and peeled in the worst way.
That was my first moose-hunting trip, and it had been a very successful one.
The next year, Cliff, an old school chum of mine, and I returned to the same area. This time we took a tent, and roughed it. If I recall the temperature was not so cold, but the other elements were in the moose’s favour. At night it would cloud up and the wind would blow like hell. During the day it would be clear and so calm you could hear a Whiskey-Jack breathe. Luck wasn't with us at all, and all we saw was fresh tracks (and even though they were real fresh, the soup had very little nutritional value). All we heard was the pitter-patter of little hooves, as they scampered off to the safety of the swamps. I guess my first year must have been beginners luck, but there were more of these Mooseless trips to come. In fact a fair few of them. One of my friends used to call me Mooseless for short.
Chapter Five
The Early season Must Be Better
Enough of that hunting in the bitter cold of winter, lets try the early season, or the trophy season. The weather sure should be better, you'd think.
So Dave and I decided that we'd give the Red Deer lake area a try. We decided that a good place to set up camp would be at the end of this road it showed on the map, that looked like it went right to the edge of the lake. Sure enough it did, right in the middle of an Indian reserve. Anyone in his right mind should have known that this was a mistake, but we set up camp and settled down for a fine few days of hunting.
During supper a little native about knee high to a grasshopper, came to visit. So we treated him pretty good, and gave him something to eat (mistake number two), and he finally buggered off home.
The next morning, we loaded up the boat, and headed out across the lake to the entrance of the Red Deer River, and followed it for about six or seven miles. It was a fairly good trip, and the river was wide and no rapids to portage. There were a lot of tree stumps sticking up, some of them right out of the water, so you had to be very careful. We had to keep a pretty keen eye out for bends in the river, and any other landmarks, so we would have a fair idea as to where we were, as we did have a large scale map with us.
Just before a bend in the river, about 300 yards ahead we noticed a very large tree, but it was close to the shore, and it shouldn't cause us any trouble.
Well I'll be damned, if next time we checked on that tree, it hadn’t sauntered of into the real trees along the shore. That was mistake number three.
After an unsuccessful day of river hunting, we headed back for camp. We were we in for a couple of real surprises. The trees along the river bank were large and very thick. As a result, when we came out of the river into the lake, we were horrified. The waves were now at least 2 1/2 to 3 feet high. The sides of my boat were about 18 inches high. I believe that the only thing that saved us was that we were using Dave's more powerful motor. My little outboard would never keep us planing on the tops of the waves.
Another thing that was in our favour, was that the waves were going in the same direction as we were. But then we had no choice in where way we were going. It was either go with the waves or go to the bottom of the lake.
Somehow we arrived safely and reasonably close to camp. The first thing Dave did was head for the camp to have a beer. Here comes surprise number two.
There was no beer, rye whiskey, or food left. The only thing that escaped their grubby little paws was a small bottle of white rum. So there we were, 30 miles from the closest store, with no food, and damned little to drink. No it wasn’t raccoons! Some thieving people types had just helped themselves to anything they liked.
We had our amateur radios, cameras, ammunition and numerous other items, that were never touched. The RCMP told us that the only reason they didn't take these items, was that they could be traced. It is pretty hard to trace a pound of bacon - and kind of messy too.
The next morning Dave took off in his truck to get more supplies and to report the theft to the RCMP.
I stayed in the camper with my hand-gun and a chunk of wood very similar to a baseball bat - God help the next one who came in that camp. The night before when we filled our gas stoves up, we had just enough left over to fill a beer bottle. We put the cap back on and left it in a very conspicuous spot. The only one that came around the camp was the guy who was the fire tower lad
He was the same nationality as the other locals. Well did I have ever have a hell of a time to keep from blowing my cover when this Indian decided to drink our last beer. HE SP
Anyway I had very little excitement, and Dave arrived safely with more food. Needless to say, we decided to move camp. We headed for Bowsman, as I knew a fellow who had land close to the edge of the south end of the Forest Reserve, and I knew we could get permission to camp on his land, and maybe even do a little bear hunting.
We had about a sixty mile drive, before we turned off of the main highway onto a side road which followed along them Forest Reserve boundary. By that time we had worked up a powerful thirst, so we promptly popped a couple of tops,and carried merrily on our way. A few miles ahead, we came across a couple of guys sitting along side an oat field. They must be bear hunters, as bears liked oat fields, so we'll stop and see how they are doing. So over we go, beer in hand, to have a chat with these boys. After a few words of wisdom we carried on to our destination.
We arrived at my friend's place, and sure enough, the bears had been coming 0out in his oat field, and making a real mess. So we promptly set our camper up in his garage, and headed for the oat field. Another mistake - we parked the truck facing the oat field, where the bears were supposed to be coming out. Sure enough, before one beer was down, one big bear came out of the bush, directly in front of us. Now what? The only way to do it was to open the door and get out to shoot. Well Yogi wasn't long out foxing us on this attempt. Blew it again. A better approach would be to get out of the truck and hide right out in the oat field. This time two Yogis came out, but they were at the other end of the field - close to 300 yards away. I was so used to using my old gun, and at that distance, you'd have to shoot a little high, and as a result I shot over one of them and Dave shot under the other. Yup! You guessed it! We blew it again.
The only excitement I had after that was when I was using the sandbox, when a bull and a cow moose slipped across a small clearing ahead of me. They messed that up pretty good in more ways than one.
On our way home we had to stop in Swan River to see the RCMP about our loss due to theft. When we walked into the cop shop, the officer asked if we were the guys with a white truck, and a boat on top of the camper. Yep, that's us, Well, says the officer, I was one of the fellows you stopped to talk to up in the oat field the other day. I often wonder why they didn't charge us for having open liquor. I guess they figures we'd had enough bad luck for one trip.
On our way home through Riding Mountain National Park, we came around a corner, and met up face to face with a great big bull moose. We came within a couple of feet of getting a moose, but not by using any particular skill. We did manage to get home safe, Mooseless, but safe. The next trip to the Red Deer Lake area was in the winter season, and I'm not sure I should mention that trip, but I might, later.
Chapter Six
Back To The Big Bucks
On this particular rendezvous there were four of us. My brother, and two other brothers, George and Bob. The day before George had slipped and fallen down a hill, and a tree branch had reached out and stabbed him in the eye as he went sailing by. He was very lucky, and there was no serious injury, but he did miss the excitement of this day.
We had hunted all morning with no luck. After dinner we tried an area a few miles further north. I did get a crack at a buck, but as usual I missed. At or near the predetermined time, my brother and I arrived back at the car. We waited for it seemed like hours for Bob, but he didn't show up. Well, we wondered if maybe he had got lost, as it was a new area, and we weren't familiar with the landmarks. It was getting onto dusk, when Bob finally came struggling out of the bush. He looked like the deer had shot him, as he was blood from top to bottom. He proceeded to describe his misfortune.
Apparently he was standing on a hill enjoying all the most wonderful sights, when all of a sudden, the biggest buck he had ever seen appeared at the bottom of the hill. So he wheeled up his musket and let fly, and down went the big buck. This was the first buck he'd ever got, and he was so overjoyed, that he leaned his gun up against a tree, and rushed down to do the required messy job of gutting the animal. So out comes his knife, and he grabs the deer by the antlers to throw it over on its back - but the deer had different ideas, and charged at him, knocking him over, and proceeded to walk all over him. He managed to get up and this time he took the hatchet and gave this old buck a sound rap right between his antlers. But this had absolutely no ill effects on this old boy. So then he had to run back up the hill and get his gun, and put this old boy out of misery. But the first shot didn't do the job - he missed - so he got a little closer, but not too close, because this old guy was no pushover, and this time it was all over. Well, almost all over, but the next problem was to try and find out where the car was, and not to forget where the deer was. Eventually he found his way back to the car, to tell all about his battle with a buck.
It certainly was a big deer. Got him in the old station wagon, with great difficulty, not only because of his weight, but his size added to the difficulties.
Chapter Seven
How About Boggy creek?
A couple of fellows from my home town had been up in this area the winter before, and figured it was a pretty good spot, even though they were not to lucky. So that's where we will go. Now Bill and I had hunted many times together and we had a few memorable trips after this one to. Him and Harry were to go up on Saturday and get started on setting up camp. I would meet them Sunday morning, as I had to work on Saturday. I arrived in San Clara on Sunday about noon and found these two staggering around on the main street. They had never got out to the proposed campsite at all. That sure didn't give us much time to get camp set up, seeing we had to go about 10 miles by skidoo.
So off we go into the wild blue yonder, or the deep dark woods, I’m not sure with two drunks along. I was using an old car hood for a sleigh, and take it from me, that is not the best set up in the world, but it did work in a kind of a fashion. About half way in to the site, the Warden caught up to us, and wanted to know where we were going. I told him we were going to Swan River for coffee. For some reason, that didn't seem to catch his fancy since we were going the other direction. We finally got to a pretty good spot, with lots of cover under large spruce trees and began setting up camp.
The tent we had was a round one. It was the first time I'd ever seen such a thing, but it wasn't all that that bad. Of course the ground was frozen, and it was so rough it was like sleeping on the Rocky Mountains. Harry wasn't too bad as he had a horsehide blanket to sleep on, but that first night I was sure I’d be frozen stiff by morning. I think the only thing that saved me was the white rum. The other two never brought any spirits; and I sure as hell wasn't sharing.
We were up and at it at the crack of dawn. I went to the southeast, and the other two went north. I found some fresh sign and before long, along came this damn airplane. It just kept flying back and forth over the area I was hunting. I don't know if it was the warden getting even with me or not, but he made me so mad, I was threatening to shoot him out of the air. He finally gave up, after he'd chased all the game away, and left.
I came back to camp for dinner, but the other two never made it back while I was there, and I wasn't sure where they'd got to. After I had dinner, I decided that I wasn't going to freeze that night, so cut a fair supply of spruce boughs, and fixed up my sleeping quarters. The others were not back yet, so I decided to try going west this time.
After about an hour of walking and seeing no fresh sign, I was mumbling away to myself “there hasn't been a moose around here in the last 10 years” when all of a sudden there was a bull moose not 75 yards away, feeding on some willow tips.
Somehow he didn't see me. Wham! We had moose steaks. No more of this Mooseless stuff for me. After getting the messy job done, gutting it. I went back to camp to get some help to haul my trophy back. Those guys still weren't back. So I waited for them, I just didn't know if I could handle this job by myself. They finally showed up just before dark and it was a mad rush to get that moose back to camp.
I used to carry a good supply of toilet paper with me at all times, for two reasons, first is the obvious. Second is for times like this so you could mark your trail. It makes it much easier to find where you had left your game. Well, it sure came handy that time. It was pretty dark by the time we got to the site of the kill. I used to tie one hind leg up to a tree with a piece of string or a bootlace, or whatever I had with me. The guys figured, now they knew my secret. You tie him up first, something like putting salt on a bird’s tail, then shoot him
Bill decided that he should drive the skidoo back to camp, and in the process he ran into a tree, and bent one ski on the skidoo, which didn't help for steering it too much. We had a 10 mile trip to get out of there as well. When we finally got back to camp and I got this Moose's hide removed so I'd have a blanket for my bed. It was so cozy that night; I thought I was at the Royal York.
The next day the guys figured we should break camp, and go home for some reason. After we got the camp down and packed I pulled out a bottle of good old rye that they didn't know I had. As a result, by the time we got to the San Clara hotel we were feeling pretty good. So we ordered supper, but they told us we were too late, and there would be no supper.
What's a guy to do? Well, Bill figured we couldn't go hungry and he went out to the truck and brought in a hind leg of the moose and laid it on the table in the bar. So we promptly got our knives out and skinned back a bit of the leg, so we could get a few good bites of delicious raw moose leg. I can assure you, we were the center of attraction in the bar that night, but we still didn't get any supper.
Then we decided we'd get two rooms. We drew straws to see who would get a room for himself. I was the lucky guy. We partied for a time in the other guy’s room. When we ran out of beer we paraded down to the bar in our underwear for more beer. Finally it was time to hit the hay. We had to get home the next day.
So back to my room I went. I was flinging the covers back on the bed I got a big surprise. There was the moose leg! There was blood and gore all over the sheets. I wonder what the cleaning lady figured happened in that bed??
Now I had to get even with those pranksters. I went to the cleaning room and got a pail, and filled it up with nice cold water. Too bad, they were thinking enough to lock their door, but there was a transom window above the door and it wasn't locked. So I got a chair, and got up there and opened the transom and in went the water, along with the mop for good measure. I learned the next day that I hadn't made a direct hit, and only about 1/2 the pail hit the bed, but it was good enough, to get the word across.
Anyway, the next morning we headed out for home. We got all the way to Shoal Lake for the first night, Souris for the next night, and I made it home the following night. I must say that was a trip to remember.
Oh yes, I almost forgot; the next time we were in the San Clara hotel, for some reason they insisted that we leave our hunting knives in our vehicles.
Chapter Eight
Back To Boggy Creek
In the late summer of '73, a fellow worker and myself decided that we should go moose hunting in the early season, up in the Boggy Creek area. Neither of us had ever been in this exact area before, and we used topographical maps to plot our trip. These maps are very often out of date, and the trails they show are almost completely grown in, and the trails that are really there, do not go where you think they go, if you follow me.
But we were lucky and arrived in good time on a Sunday afternoon. I took my old "Blunder Bus" which was an old International bread van converted to a makeshift motor home. It wasn't much (according to some people) but it did the job. All went well, and we found the trail, and proceeded onward. We went down a fairly steep hill, and run across another camper all set up. So we had to go farther, as we didn't want to be right next door to other hunters. We ran into a mess of trees that blew over the trail, so we had a lot of cutting to do. But never fear, my friend assured me, I have a chain saw, and we'll have that trail cleared in no time. Well, we got it cleared all right, but it took lots of time, and that was the second time I had had anything to do with the Great chain saw. I think we cut about 3 trees with the chain saw, and the rest we cut by axe and hand saw. But we did get there, to the very end of the trail. It wasn't too bad a spot, but if it had rained any amount, we would have been there for a considerable time.
Another fellow worker was coming up on the Tuesday, as he had to work, so it was up to Steve and I to find all the good spots. We wandered around, and got familiar with the area for the first two days, but didn't find any moose. We did find what we thought might be a real good fishing spot though. There was a little creek between two small lakes. The one lake was much higher in elevation than the other one, and the beavers had about 4 dams built in between the two lakes. We'd try this at a later date.
John showed up on Tuesday as planned, so we planned a lot of very serious strategy for the next morning.
John and I decided we should explore some new area to the northeast, and Steve decided to hunt the trails we had previously checked out, so he wouldn't get lost. John and I were sitting on a stump having a well-deserved rest, when we heard three shots come from the area Steve should be in. Seeing he only had a deer license, we felt we better get back just in case it wasn't a deer.
So we headed out across country to where we figured the truck was, and we were very surprised to come out within 50 yards of the truck. The only problem was it wasn't our truck, but it was none other than the warden's truck. That made things a little more exciting, but we were relieved to find that our truck was only about another 50 yards down the trail. I'll always remember John being very amazed that we came all that way through the underbrush and came out that close to the spot we were aiming for. Just luck I guess.
Now, where was Steve? After a few minutes, here he comes back down the trail, looking like he'd lost his last friend. When he arrived at the truck he proceeded to tell us his very heart-rending story. He had seen and had three shots at the biggest moose he had ever seen, but it was nowhere to be found. So back we all go to the spot that he had shot from, and then started to look in the area where he figured it should be. He told us exactly where he should have hit him with each of the three shots, and when he fired the last one, the moose vanished. We finally found the moose behind a large spruce tree that had blown over in the wind. He was right, it was a big moose, one of the largest I have ever seen, but it was at least 75 yards further away than he thought it was. There were three reasons why he didn't find it. First, he had been looking at some ducks out on Duffie Lake, and had cranked his scope up to eight power, and forgot to lower it. As a result, the moose looked like it was much closer than it really was. Second, it was a very large moose, and third, I believe he was skeptical about going back in that jungle to look for a mean old moose.
It took us some time to get that big fellow out of there, and back to camp, but we did it.
We managed to get the chain saw going somehow, and were in the process of cutting the moose in half with it, when a couple of other hunters came along. They told us we had just ruined our meat as the oil from the chain saw would taint the meat, but we found out at eating time, there was no truth to it. Since then we have done the same many times, with no problems, and it sure is easier and I think it does a better job than the old hand saw. Providing you can get the chain saw started.
Later in the week, Steve and I went to try out our fishing spot, and had a fun time for about twenty minutes. I believe we got 10 fish out of that little spot. But we got severely reprimanded by our partner John, for wasting valuable hunting time fishing. If I remember correctly, I don't believe we had any other very exciting happenings take place during this trip. No more of that Mooseless crap for us guys - we know how to do it now.
This was the first of a number of years that we hunted in this area. During the years we named the trails, lakes, and other historic points of interest with names of important things that happened. For example, the place where Steve got his moose is now officially named "Sack a moose". We used to call Steve "Sak" at work due to his initials, so what better name could you choose for that historic point of interest? There will be more to come... Stay tuned.
Chapter Nine
Back To the Same Old Spot
In the fall of '74 John and I were on our way back to the old area. This time we are chugging along in the old Blunderbuss, towing a four wheel drive army type jeep, so we'd be able to get back in there where the big ones were. Steve and a newcomer to the group by the name of Al, alias Snoopy, would be up later in the week. Of course every one knows that A Blunderbuss is an old delivery van made into a mobile hunting cabin, we just blundered along, looking for game.
As amazing as it may seem, we made it with no breakdowns or problems. We decided that we would take the Jeep and go up the trail to a spot we called Sack-A-Moose, to see if we could find a better camping spot. One where you would have no trouble getting out if it rained. We had been up there last fall with the truck to get Steve's moose, so we didn’t anticipate any problems. We didn't get very far when all of a sudden we sunk up to the axles. So much for four wheel drive units. We tried to pull the Jeep out with the Blunderbuss, but it was unsuccessful.
As a result, we set up camp on this trail, which, at a later date, would be named Snoopy's Drive. It wasn't too bad a spot, and we were close to where the Jeep was stuck. That evening we were wishing that we had a few planks, so we could jack up the Jeep and slide the planks under the wheels.
The next morning when we go back to the site, lo and behold, there was some planks lying in the tall grass. It was obvious that someone else had done the same thing. We finally got out and did some exploring.
One time we ended up in a farmyard, and got to yacking with the owner. We learned that he was from Tennessee and little did we know that in the future this place would become famous. The Boggy Creek Festival was held there for a number of years, until he went broke.
A few days later the other guys arrived and we were in full force. I am not sure if it was the second day after the guys arrived or not, but we all took off on different trails, in search of the elusive moose. I went to the west, and then cut back north to Fish Lake and started back to the main trail. I was about 150 yards from the main trail when I heard the Jeep, on the main trail. Damn, if I had been a little faster, I'd have had a ride back to camp.
I was still mumbling away about how I'd missed the ride when I came out to the main trail, when low and behold, there was a bull moose. He was just crossing the main trail, not 45 yards from me. Well will wonders never cease; I had another moose. If I had been 10 seconds later, he'd have been in the bush.
Everything went smoothly for the rest of the trip, and we had no more excitement. Snoopy had to go home on Saturday. Steve was going to go as well, but he decided to stay. John and I decided we'd make a trip for more supplies. Mainly spirits. When we returned a good time was had by all.
When we got up the next morning, there was at least 10 inches of snow on the ground. While we were floundering around trying to dig Steve's truck out of the snow, we noticed where a moose had come down the trail. It made a slight detour around the bus, and carried on. He wouldn't have been more than 20 yards from the Blunderbuss. I suppose he was coming to the party, but thought better of it when he heard all the commotion.
Well, that Jeep was going to come in handy. So off they go, John in the Jeep, pulling Steve in his truck. It was fairly mild, and as a result the snow was very heavy, and it had bent the trees over so bad that in some places it looked like a solid bush. There was a curve in the trail, and straight ahead was what used to be a trail, but it had no exit. Well you guessed it; they went straight ahead for some considerable distance. I don't know how they got turned around in that mess, but eventually they did get to the main road.
That was the end of an unusually uneventful hunting trip, but some of the trips in the future would definitely make up for this one, and that's for sure.
Chapter Ten
Stretch A Moose
Well, here we are in the fall of '75, and back at the same old hunting area. We did change campsites and we were closer to the edge of the forest reserve. It was at the "Y" of the main trail and Snoopy Drive. It turned out to be a good spot, and we used it for about three more years.
This trip, Steve was not with us, but if I remember correctly, another Al, John's brother, was along.
About the second or third evening, John was on his way to camp, trudging along the main trail, when all of a sudden a bull moose appeared on the edge of the trail. WHAMO! He had what I believe was his first moose. By the time he rounded everyone up to help, it was getting pretty late. Before we got the moose out of there it was darker than the inside of a moose, before he's been unzipped.
So we all got at it, and of course the customary thing to do was to tie one hind leg up to a tree, so it's out of the way while we were doing this very messy job. A few beers later we had him all ready to load on the truck. Since it was so dark, we decided that rather than try to back in there with the truck, we would just pull him out by hand.
Well he was surprisingly easy to pull, for the first foot, and then he was stuck on something. We tried harder, but to no avail. By cracky, I guess if we untied that rope from his back leg to that tree, it would ease the task immensely. It worked, and he came out of there with no trouble at all.
I recalled Snoopy saying, "Whatever we do, don't let anyone back at the plant hear about this."
Now me being the devil I am, I said to myself, "That's what you think, fellow.” That Christmas I made up a Christmas card similar to the following sketch.
As a result, the boy's each got one of my special Christmas cards, just for a reminder. I still get a chuckle out of that episode, every time I think of it.
Later on that week, I was wandering around up in the area of our first campsite, and had just started back along a trail that we hadn't named yet. There was a sharp turn in the trail just ahead of me, and on the south side there was a clearing. I felt that this would be a good spot to have a little rest.
I had only been there a couple of minutes, when I got a glimpse of a movement through the heavy growth of spruce trees. At first I thought it was a deer, but when I got the second peek at it, I couldn't believe my eyes. It had to be the largest bull elk I had ever seen. He was strolling along just perfectly, and another few steps and he'd be in a spot where I could get a fairly decent shot.
I don’t know why he would pick up my scent; we'd only been in the bush a week without a bath. Anyway, he stopped and began to fidget around. After a few seconds of this messing about, he decided that he'd had enough of this stink, and he took off through the underbrush. Now I want to tell you, he had the pedal to the metal. As he ran out of range, I got a glimpse of the massive antlers he had. That was like rubbing salt in a sore. I did try a shot in the general direction of him, but I had about as much chance of hitting him, as I have of winning a sweepstakes. That trail had just become officially called Elk Drive, but I think it should have been Elk Run.
The other guys had to go back to work, so we planned on an early morning hunt, and then they had to hit the road. So everyone had picked a trail, and took off. As I was usually the last one ready so I had to follow somebody else.
John was going up the main trail, so I would follow him in about 15 minutes. Well, Hawk was right at the spot where he had dropped the moose we had stretched, when right ahead of him there was a bull elk standing. He was right where he'd been standing when he shot the moose. Well, he let fly at the elk, and down it went. John's nickname was Hawk, but after getting that moose, I called him Super Hawk. The elk story had a different ending.
If at any time you had an animal down, and needed help, you would fire three shots, spaced 10 seconds apart. I don’t know that it worked that well because they never heard my shots when I asked for help. So John figured it was time to call for help, and he let off three blasts in the air. But Mr. Elk found this racket to be intolerable, and made a hasty exit to the safety of the tall timber. When I met up with Hawk, he was fit to be tied. But I'll tell you I wasn't going to try it, not in his state of anxiety.
So we thoughtfully organized a scheme that was foolproof. Unfortunately, the elk also had a plan of his own; and his was foolproof. He vanished into the tall timber, never to be seen again.
To add a pinch of salt to the sore, I had to mention to Hawk, that he had just muffed the chance of a lifetime; to bag an elk and a moose in the same season, at the exact same spot. I think to say he was unhappy was an understatement -.
I prowled around in that area for a day and a half, but I didn't see any sign of the elk.
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